the writings of a manboy with a spotted bed sheet

Hippy of the Utopia

He was high, and he shouted at me, “I’ll go there today. I’ll burn everything down. I’ll lay waste to the place.”

I asked him, “Why?”

“Because that’s what they’ve done to us. They’ve pulled away all the hatred, all the jealousy, all the bitterness, depression, purposelessness. They’ve stolen all our emotions. They’ve turned us into ecstatic, miserable creatures with nothing but happiness. When we die, all we’ll see will be joy and joyfulness, but thanks to them and their disgusting foresight, never despair, never regret, never pain.”

“But those things have never been good. I’ve never seen, in the literature of the old folks, anyone in their right mind who is fond of despair.”

“But the readers seem quite fond of it. They don’t mind sadness as the audience, do they? When they’re tortured from afar? Those imbeciles who devour the tragedies and weep and then tell us that we should live in utter bliss?”

“But what will burning them down do?”

“Oh, it’ll sprinkle a bit of ugliness. It’ll cause chaos and sorrow. They’ll taste those realities again. They’ll see the darkness for once. They’ll feel rage, they’ll demand revenge, and they’ll flay me alive, or cut off my finger with all the wrath inside them. They’ll retaliate. And I’ll feel regret and become helpless. I’ll fall on my knees, and only feel the pain, the torment that’ll run through me. They might even feel jealous, because only I will be flayed with no fingers on. I will be the only one tormented. It’ll be my unique feeling in an anger-stricken crowd with nothing but ecstasy.”

Then he ran out of dope and went out to rob someone of their purse and consequently was arrested by the police and through the sophisticated biological processes turned into a good citizen.